


Born in a Garden

by thompsonitis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:06:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thompsonitis/pseuds/thompsonitis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who's tempting who?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born in a Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr. Weird diction aside, this is probably the first pairing that I wrote for, and even then it's only hinted at. Amazing.

He’s watching Aziraphale watch him watch Aziraphale.

That’s a fancy way of saying it. Really, they’re staring at each other, not in the least bit subtle about it. They eye each other over the table like the way a dog and a cat eye each other, the way the police eye a criminal, or the way a lover eyes the world.

How could they be subtle about it, anyway? How could they ignore the sensation of being watched, of eyes that trace a soul’s divinity, that focus into the depths of a soul? How could they ignore eyes that are neither pleased or disgusted at what is there to be beheld, or in fact not there at all?

How, when not staring is not an option, like trying to pull apart the moon from the earth?

So they watch each other over the table, a habit born from memory born from distrust born from a garden. They’ve been doing this for a century, for a minute, and either time frame would and wouldn’t work, because this is Crowley and this is Aziraphale.

A century, a minute, and when they look away for the first time since they’ve  _looked_ , Crowley stares at Aziraphale’s nose and Aziraphale focuses on Crowley’s hands, folded on the white cloth of the table that acts as the sea between them.

They order dinner: steak, medium rare and a kosher dish that Crowley doesn’t care to know the name of. Wine is given, and who ordered it is something that Crowley hasn’t kept track of, but he takes the glass offered and drinks like a man with restraint, something that he is not.

He offers Aziraphale the wine from his own glass, doesn’t know why other than the fact that Aziraphale has tea instead, but when Aziraphale nods he think  _oh_ , and then,  _oh no_.

Something in him seizes until he refuses to share a drop of wine with Aziraphale, forces Aziraphale to drink his tea instead.

It’s his heart, Crowley realises. He hates himself and the confused look on Aziraphale’s face for it.

Crowley is a tempter by choice, by habit, by design, but Aziraphale is something that he will not touch, not even when the angel smiles, forgiving and almost blank at Crowley when their meal arrives and the waitress breaks the awkward silence.

 _Who’s tempting who, angel?_  Crowley wants to ask, but saying it aloud he knows it will turn into a fervent prayer to the wrong person and burn his lips and tongue, so he doesn’t.


End file.
